Little Puzzles
by Choco-Loki
Summary: Snippets from the nation's children's lives. A sidestory for CTD/PTP. RusAmer, Spamano, FrUK, GerIta. Warnings: crossdressing, no genderbending, fluff, yaoi, past mpreg.


**A/N: **Quick sidestory before I straighten out the first chapter of Sketching Out Memories. This takes place before CTD. Could be read alone, but basically if you've never seen CTD the gist is that the OCs mentioned are the countries' children by the magic of mpreg (/shot); mommy!nations have the ability to look like girls and sound like one (/double shot), and their children have no idea they're nations. And nations are not supposed to have face-to-face contact with each other until their kids are old enough to understand….or something.

And now I will go hide under a rock.

**Warnings**: past mpreg (it's hardly mentioned, lol), crossdressing, **no genderbending**. When nations are referred to as 'she', that means they're in their girl mode. (Allie = Alfred, Elizabeth = Arthur, btw) Pft. Includes: **RusAmer**, **FrUK**, **Spamano**, **GerIta**. Sp/grammatical errors, DM-linked words, and plotholes will be corrected after publication.

**Notes**: -Oh, and did you guys know that CTD and PTP are getting translated into Spanish by **Chillis**? I don't speak Español but _me gusta_. And also 'cause if CTD gets flames it'll be in Spanish and I can't read it lols (/triple shot)  
>-Adrian doesn't remember because his memory is short-wired (like his mom lols), and Alec is too depressed about James to recall that moment. Adrian and Mikhail are in London with their mom (again). This takes place when Adrian is a freshman; he is not in California yet.<br>-Technically only Evangeline and Alec can be considered as "foreign students," but whatever. oTL|||  
>-And lol, Alec sounds like a bitch. Just imagine he corrects himself after the James Stanton incident. XD<p>

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>Felicita Vargas Carriedo had been around eight when her parents brought her to Madrid during summer vacation. Her mother had protested (multiple times, Felicita remembered) and supplied plenty of questionable reasons of why they should travel to Italy instead of Spain, but Antonio was persistent. He had reassured his daughter of his success before going to Lovino and whispering something in her ear. She'd promptly smashed her palm in his face and pushed him off, marching into the backyard with a heavy blush and muttering obscenities in Italian under her breath.<p>

But they went to Spain in the end.

Felicita didn't think her dad could look happier than he normally was, but apparently she was wrong. He took his daughter and Lovino all around the city and to cafés and parks as if he'd lived in Madrid his entire life. When Felicita asked him that, however, his original response was cut short by Lovino, who'd smacked his arm and threw him a look.

"I've been here once or twice," he said slowly.

Felicita was not entirely certain. "But you—"

Then Antonio had pointed to a flock of flamingoes and Felicita forgot her questions. The three continued along Faunia without another word relating to her parents' origins, the thought having escaped Felicita for a moment. They settled at a café near the lake and had lunch there, after Lovino got pissed at a parrot for landing on her shoulder. Felicita sipped her orange juice through a kiddie straw, noticing a particularly large family walk by—the little children dancing ahead, and the grandparents in the back, shouting what were probably warnings to the kids to not wander too far.

"How come I don't have grandparents, Mama?" she piped up. It wasn't like she wanted one, she was quite content with her parents, she believed. But it occurred to her than she didn't know much about what her parents did; when the teacher had asked the class Felicita couldn't come up with an answer, so she just said 'tomato farmer', to which everyone started laughing at.

Antonio visibly flinched, but Lovino only twirled her pasta on her fork, seeming unaffected. "'Cause they're dead," she said flatly, turning a page in her book.

"Lovino!" Antonio turned to his daughter, trying to explain it in a more kid-friendly version. "Feli, your grandparents passed away a long time ago, but you're happy with Mama and Papa, right?"

She was, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to keep asking. "Don't I have any aunts or uncles? Don't you have a sibling, Mama?"

Lovino stiffened and stared at her plate. "…No."

"Feli, bebé…" Antonio attempted to sound hurt. "Are we—"

"No." _Let me do this,_ _tomato bastard, _she seemed to add, if Antonio translated that glare correctly. Lovino composed herself and gazed at Felicita, her mind whirling with thoughts of the past world meetings and Veneziano, whom Felicita reminded her of. "Felicita, do you—don't blow bubbles in your juice, that's not polite—do you want grandparents and other relatives?"

She answered without missing a beat. "Nope. I was just asking." Felicita blinked and nudged the little tomatoes on her plate with her fork, then stabbed it once or twice. "I don't want to eat this tomato, Papa, I had four of them already…"

Of course, in all horror Antonio picked up the fruit and ate it before Felicita inflicted any more damage on it, lecturing on how people should treat tomatoes with care and love or else they'll come to life and attack. Lovino seemed relieved and returned to her novel, sticking in a sarcastic comment now and then. They spent the rest of the afternoon walking up and down in the Faunia until Felicita got tired, which ended up with Antonio carrying her on his back. The front of his shirt was stained with dabs of strawberry ice cream and tomato sauce spills (courtesy of his daughter), but he gave Lovino a grin.

"So how did you like Madrid, Mrs. Carriedo?"

Lovino rolled her eyes. "It's the same old shit, you brought me to Faunia at least ten times. Even the stupid manager remembers you."

"Felicita had fun," he said pleasantly.

The corners of Lovino's mouth turned up ever so slightly. "Yeah."

* * *

><p>Adrian Braginski was sitting on the kitchen stool with his chin on the counter, watching his mother take DiGiorno's Spicy Chicken Supreme pizza out of the oven. How his mother could eat three Big Macs a day and still maintain a figure was beyond him. She took a seat opposite of him and cut out a chunk of pizza, chewing noisily. It was snowing again, as was expected of Detroit, but at least it was way better than Moscow, where blizzards could probably bury people if it wanted to. He always wondered why they kept moving; they'd lived in Moscow for quite a while, then it was Connecticut, and for some reason his parents had randomly packed up and brought everyone to Michigan.<p>

And there were always well-furnished houses located conveniently wherever they happened to move to, though Adrian wasn't complaining.

"Aren't you gonna save any for dad and Mikhail?" he asked.

His mother shrugged. "Sucks for them if they're not home when the food is out. So how was school today?"

Adrian pulled a stack of papers from his backpack and slid them over to Allie. "We have to do a family tree project thing. So far I have four people." He looked up. "Do we have anyone else I can put down?"

Allie thought about that. "Nope. Why do you want more people? It's cool with us four, ain't it?" She drummed her fingers on the countertop as if demanding an answer.

"I guess so…"

"What's the family tree for anyways?"

"The teacher said something about 'recognizing the importance of family members'—"

Allie burst out chuckling. "That's so lame."

"That's what I told her. And she got all angry and I had to go to the office." Adrian showed her a form sheepishly. "Wanna sign the office letter so I can turn it in tomorrow?"

"Why don't you show your dad?" Allie said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure he'd love to sign it."

Adrian blanched. "He's going to chop me in _half_."

"Should've thought about that before you called the project lame."

"You thought it was stupid, too!"

"That doesn't mean you should say it. What other homework do you have?"

He rummaged for a bit before handing his mother a textbook. "American Revolution skit for fifth graders. I'm going to play Paul Bunyan."

Allie nearly choked on her pizza. "You mean Paul Revere."

"Same thing. Can you help me make my costume?"

"I'll think of something." She paused, pondering for a second. "What's Mikhail playing?"

"I don't know, George Washington, I think—"

This time Allie did double over in laughter, holding her stomach as if it hurt.

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><p>At age six, Mikhail Braginski discovered the magic of computers; more specifically, his father's computer. He would sneak into his dad's office whenever he was gone and hop on the chair, going through documents that held no meaning to him and run through the Internet history, wondering why it was always blank. And when he heard Ivan's footsteps down the hall he would grab his notebooks and pretend to have been waiting to ask a question regarding two-digit subtraction homework.<p>

He later deduced that the only reason of why the history would be gone was because his dad didn't want anyone to know where he'd been. In other words, his dad was a secret agent.

Or a criminal.

Mikhail then doodled out a picture of Ivan (which, in reality, consisted of two purple dots for eyes, a 'J' for a nose, and a wide smile, enclosed within an oval of a face), staring at it from time to time as if trying to find any resemblance to a convict. He didn't think his dad looked like a bad guy, despite how creepily he'd drawn the smile. He uncapped his black marker and scribbled squiggly marks on Ivan's chin. Maybe with a really scraggly beard, he would, but now the picture reminded him more of Shel Silverstein. Or a homeless Santa Claus. Thirty minutes later he ended up with no plausible answers and a picture of what used to be Ivan sporting a black beard, a beehive hairdo, blue earrings, and lipstick; to him it looked more terrifying than any convict he'd seen on TV.

There was one time he actually got a good look at his dad's computer, the time when Ivan had fallen asleep on the chair before dinner. His mom had made him go upstairs to call Ivan down, which Mikhail reluctantly did so, but once he saw the computer he decided that it was a chance too good to pass up. Who knew what sorts of cool stuff (and by cool he really meant 'illegal') was hidden in there? Mikhail half-scrambled, half-hiked, onto the table to glance at the glowing screen; it currently displayed a half-typed out email in Russian, addressed to some guy with the same name as the President of Russia (well, Mikhail supposed the President couldn't be the only one with that name, like how there _must_ be someone else in the world called George Bush).

The history hadn't been cleared, though most of the websites he clicked on he was met with a white page with only the words 'Access Denied' in square Russian letters. Going back to the email, he scrolled down and skimmed about three paragraphs before he heard his dad's voice muttering his name from behind, to which he responded by panicking and landing face-down onto the floor.

Two ice packs and four mocking laughs from Adrian later, the rest of the night finished rather normally. Mikhail had been expecting his dad to interrogate him or something, but it never happened. His parents tucked him in and kissed him good-night, and after Adrian climbed into the top bunk and his rants about his day turned into soft snores, Mikhail closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He dreamed of his convict doodle and a computer screen, and after that he dreamed of nothing at all.

* * *

><p>Alec Bonnefoy didn't think he could dislike anyone. He didn't even feel contempt over his last date, who'd left him for some reason Alec totally and full-heartedly forgot (probably because he could care less, now that he had James Stanton around). So here he was in a coffee shop in London ordering tea (it wasn't like they wouldn't sell it to him, he'd never liked coffee in the first place), when he met the most annoying person who's tread the face of the planet.<p>

The coffee shop was crowded and bustling, as usual, and about two persons away was said annoying person, most likely a tourist, judging by his American accent; he wore a hoodie and shutter shades, so Alec couldn't quite see his face. He might've let the guy be and laughed it over with his sister or something, but the guy took his three black coffees and also swiped Alec's tea.

_That idiot!_

"Hey! That's my—"

He turned around, his expression blank, as far as Alec could tell. And God, the boy had platinum hair, as if he'd dyed it. "Oh. I thought this one was a freebie." He gave it back, shrugging. "Guess London's not as cool as I thought."

Alec's face flared. He didn't even apologize, the nerve of him— "Well, _excuse_ me if London's not as rundown and lame as your little village back home." Okay, that had come out meaner than he'd intended, but there was no taking it back now.

"Hey, I'm not here as a tourist, Eyebrows," he growled. "And at least half of my 'rundown' village is more polite than _you_." And the guy threw him a satisfied smirk and breezed out the door with his three cups of coffee.

_Eye_…_brows_…? Alec dashed outside, the redness on his cheeks intensifying. "Get back here—"

"Al?"

Alec gave a start and whipped around, the blush dying down. "James…what are you doing here?"

James Stanton chuckled. "Thought I might find you here. What were _you_ doing, running out like that?"

"Uh…" The American tourist must be staring at him, he was certain. Without turning around, he laid his head on James's shoulder, smiling nastily to himself. "Just met this idiot from America."

James wrapped his arms around Alec and steered him in the opposite direction, laughing. "I'm sure that was quite an adventure."

At least Alec wouldn't have to meet that guy ever again, thank goodness.

On the far end of the street, Adrian Braginski took off his hood and handed a cup to his brother. Mikhail opened the lid and blew at it, trying to find whatever (or whoever) Adrian was gazing at. "Where are you looking?"

Adrian blinked at Alec and James in the distance, shaking off his shades. Damn glasses made it hard to see. "Dunno."

* * *

><p>Aloisa Beilschmidt liked to watch her mother paint. She would see unfinished canvases of flowers and scenery from calendars and pasta and a little blond boy with a dark cape and hat. Sometimes her mother would draw someone who looked like herself, only with sharper eyes and the hair curl on the other side, and if Aloisa asked her who it was, she would reply with a smile that that was her alter ego.<p>

She also liked watching her father bake. She thought that he made the best cakes, her favorite being a strawberry tart that her uncle usually ate before she got to it. She thought her dad looked scary, but as she got older she realized that most of the time he wasn't seriously angry, but his booming voice made the difference more difficult to discern.

Aloisa didn't know what her uncle did, but she supposed that when he's not off chugging beer or stealing her cakes, she liked to play with him with the dogs. She used to like him calling her Prinzessin, until she found out that he was saying it as a joke rather than an endearment.

As far as she knew, her mother worked as a painter or designer, her dad an engineer, and her Onkel Gilbert a freeloader. And that was alright with her.

Sometimes her family acted strange. During eighth grade Aloisa made a PowerPoint on concentration camps in Germany for history class, her uncle made no comments as he drove her to the library for books, and her parents looked stricken the first time she told them about the project. When she drew out a timeline of World War II for English class in her freshman year, complete with black-and-white photos from the Internet pasted on the sidelines, her mother had stared silently at the date when Italy surrendered, and the date on which Hiroshima was attacked.

She overheard her parents talking at night while looking at her finished timeline project, her mother murmuring softly, "She'll hate us if we tell her."

Her dad replied, "She'll hate us if we don't tell her."

Tell her what? she thought. Tell her that the timeline was messy? Tell her that she glued on the pictures crooked and that she white-outed typos in ten different places? But a week passed and Aloisa did not hear anything from her parents, and so she didn't bother to bring it up. When the unit on WWII ended and the class moved on to the history of Asia, her family seemed to revert back to before. Her uncle made irritating comments from the corner when she drew out a diagram for vocabulary, her mom would point at a painting in the textbook and say that she saw it in a museum once, and her dad would help her with homework again.

And eventually Aloisa became uncertain that an incident like that ever happened.

* * *

><p>Evangeline Bonnefoy's brother had wanted to be a chef like their dad, and their father initially encouraged him, but after showing his talents in the kitchen there was an unspoken understanding that he was banned from touching the stove for life. Most of the time he hung around the park with one of his many girl friends ("Girl friends, Evan," he'd said. "Friends who happen to of the female persuasion.")<p>

Female persuasion her arse, Evangeline thought. She truly believed that Alec was going to get knifed by his "girl friends", since the way he acted around them sure didn't look like they were just "friends".

Then again, that also meant their dad, with all his French affection and _amour_, was going to die early.

Evangeline, on the other hand, wanted to be an author. Like her mother, though Evangeline hasn't seen any of her published works or things like that. If she asked what Elizabeth was writing about, her mother would close whatever page she had open and change the topic, switching instantly to "How was school?" or "Where is your brother?"

When she was little she liked having her mother help her with drawing out her own made-up tales. Elizabeth would draw in fairies and a green rabbit with wings while Evangeline colored the rest of the page with blue and green markers. She recalled that there was a period when she had been obsessed with fairytales. She didn't think she'd grown out of it yet, even at age fourteen.

She also noticed that her parents whispered to each other a lot at night, when they believed that Evangeline and Alec were both asleep. She would catch words such as "my boss" and "documents" and a few country names like America and Seychelles. But seeing as that these conversations usually ended with her dad groping her mother in inappropriate locations, Evangeline didn't pay them much heed.

But there were times when her mother got a cold the same time the newscaster announced that the English stock market dropped another point, and moments when Francis had to sit down and rest when Evangeline saw in the papers about the recent terrorist bombings in France. There were too many questions that Evangeline didn't know how to ask without sounding like she was mental. The day Evangeline sat down and read about more terrorists warnings in England was the day her parents pronounced that they were moving to California.

It was just as well. Alec had been looking down for a while because of his breakup with some tosser named James Stanton. Maybe a change would better for everyone.


End file.
